Something most unusual was going on. It was as if Alban was reading his mind.
But he needed air. Now. He rose straight up, burst the surface, took a deep breath. And he saw Alban was heading away from him, swerving his boat and coming back around, a look of surprise and even consternation on the boy’s face.
No, Alban wasn’t reading his mind. It was something else. Pendergast recalled what Constance had said about Alban—something about a sixth sense, or perhaps an extension of one of the other five. The line from Nietzsche that Alban had quoted ran through his head, once, twice. What did it mean?
He kicked down under the surface about three feet and swam laterally, deliberately, toward shore. The boat above him swerved and made a loop, the whine of its engine filling his ears, then slowed and headed approximately toward the spot where he would have to surface for air. And yes, he would surface there; he would. That is what he would definitely do.
No, this was not a question of mind reading. Alban could not read a person’s mind. He had some sort of unusual ability, but it was not that. It was both less than that, and more.
Pendergast, long before he needed air, abruptly shot to the surface after a split-second change of plans—and Alban, only twenty feet away but moving in the wrong direction, saw him, again surprised; he swerved the boat and jammed on the throttle. Pendergast waited, dove, and as the boat came overhead and moved in a tight circle he darted upward again, the Nazi hewer in hand, and rammed it into the hull as the boat passed overhead; the heavy blade cleaved the light fiberglass and he gave the knife a twist before the boat’s forward motion wrenched it out of his hand. The propeller passed just inches over his head, buffeting him with turbulence, buzzing like a gigantic wasp.
Surfacing right behind the boat, he gulped air once, then again, and kicked off for shore, swimming like mad. It would take Alban at least a few minutes to deal with the flood of water introduced by the leak, and he was already approaching the shoaling water near shore, a hundred yards from the beginning of the marsh grass and two hundred from thick cattails and swamp.
As much as he could, he swam underwater, making random changes in direction unexpected even by himself, often opposite to what his instincts told him, sometimes actually doubling back on himself. When he surfaced he could see Alban hunched over in the boat, working frantically to stanch the leak, but every time Pendergast rose for air he stood, shouldered his rifle, and cracked out a shot that smacked the water inches from Pendergast’s head; turning and kick-diving down again, he heard several more shots zip past in the water.
His son was, without question, shooting to kill. That answered another important question that had been lingering in his mind.
He continued swimming, maintaining his erratic behavior but always trending toward shore. The boat was listing seriously now, but Alban had apparently blocked or stuffed the hole and was starting to bail, once in a while rising to take another shot when Pendergast surfaced. He was a superb shot: the only thing saving Pendergast was the afternoon sun lying low on the horizon, shining directly toward Alban and reflecting off the water in a blinding sheet.
Pendergast felt his feet brush the muddy bottom, and he swam until the water was waist-deep and he was at the edge of the marsh grass. Now he could wade, albeit awkwardly, keeping low. More shots came, but now distance and the surrounding cattails were in his favor, and then he was hidden by the thickening plants. Still, Alban continued firing—no doubt at the rustling of the vegetation disturbed by his passage. By slipping through the lanes of cattails, Pendergast was able to decoy his movements, reaching out and shaking stalks that were at a distance from him. But Alban quickly caught on to that, rounds ripping through on either side, snipping the cattails and sending up clouds of fluff.
The boat engine fired up and Pendergast redoubled his speed. He heard it approach, slapping through the reeds—and then there was a muffled sound as the propeller hit mud and the vessel grounded out.
A splash—Alban had jumped out and was pursuing him.
Thrashing through the cattails, Pendergast reached thick brush at the edge of the swamp, bulled through it, and continued on into the forest, shouldering past the heavy vegetation.
His son was superior to him physically and, perhaps, even mentally. No stratagem would shake Alban in this forest, a forest he knew well. Pendergast’s only chance was to fully understand Alban’s mysterious advantage—and use it against him.
The strange quotation from Nietzsche came into his mind yet again, unbidden:
Glance into the world just as though time were gone: and everything crooked will become straight to you.
That was when the revelation blossomed over him like a sunrise.
79
IN HIS ELEGANT OFFICE, OBERSTGRUPPENFÜHRER WULF Fischer indulged himself in another cigarette, offering one to his second in command, Scheermann. Fischer then lit it for the man, enjoying the reversal of roles; a gesture that demonstrated his own confidence and security, as well as the trust he placed in his captain.
He walked to the window that looked westward over the lake and raised his binoculars. He could see Alban’s boat moving in circles, see the tiny swimming figure of Pendergast. If Alban had had any reluctance about killing his father, it did not seem to be in evidence now.
“This is charming. Take a look, Oberführer.”
Fischer stepped aside and let his second in command gaze at the scene. He waited, inhaling the blended Syrian Latakia tobacco, grown and cured on their own farms, the finest in South America.
“Yes, most charming,” Scheermann said as he lowered the glasses. “Alban seems up to the challenge. Very encouraging.”
A silence. “We shall see if he is capable of the kill.”
“I’m sure he will be, mein Oberstgruppenführer. His breeding and training were impeccable.”
Fischer did not respond. The truth was, the true and final test had yet to take place. He inhaled smoke, let it stream from his nose. “Tell me: are there any survivors from the invading unit?”
“None. Five got into the fortress, but Alban and our soldiers seem to have killed them all. We found all five bodies.”
“Any casualties among the Twins Brigade?”
“None. Although we lost a fairly large number of regular soldiers—upwards of two dozen. I’m still awaiting a final count.”
“Regrettable.” Fischer took back the glasses and peered through them again. It could almost have been two children playing in the lake, the boat moving in lazy circles, the swimmer diving and swimming underwater, coming up for air—everything, at that distance, appearing as if in slow motion. But now something happened: the boat appeared to have been holed, and Pendergast was swimming straight for shore.
Logic told Fischer that Pendergast was no match for his son—the son who carried all of his father’s own best genes, enhanced, while unburdened of the deleterious ones. And who had been trained from birth for this very sort of challenge.
“Quite a show,” he said, keeping his voice confident. “The Romans in the Colosseum would be envious.”
“Yes, Oberstgruppenführer.”
That nagging feeling, however, that shadow of doubt, refused to go away, and as the contest on the water became prolonged the doubt only increased. Finally, Fischer spoke again. “I’m confident that Pendergast, if he reaches shore, will head for the defectives’ camp. Alban will pursue, of course, but to be sure there are no problems, I want you to mobilize a group of our regulars and the Twins Brigade—now that they are warmed up—and transport them across the lake. I want them to act as a backup for Alban. Just in case. An insurance policy, you understand, nothing more.” He tried to make it sound casual.
“Immediately, Oberstgruppenführer.”
“On the double.”
Oberführer Scheermann left with a crisp salute. Fischer turned back to the window, glassing the little drama on the lake. Alban was now standing in the boat, shooting—and missing. Granted, it was a highly difficult and p
recarious shot, in constant motion, unable to steady the weapon properly, the light the way it was.
Still…
80
AS PENDERGAST SLIPPED THROUGH THE FOREST, HE WAS well aware that Alban would be in pursuit, despite the silence behind him. And, without doubt, he would soon catch up.
As he glided forward, he considered his recent revelation. He thought he now understood Alban’s unusual ability. It was a quality that he himself, and others, possessed as well—but only vestigially, weakly. In Alban it had been greatly enhanced. He had to be careful how he deployed his realization; he had to wait for the right moment, not let Alban realize he was aware of his special advantage: he could not afford to throw the surprise away at the wrong time.
He came upon a trail in the forest leading in the direction of the defectives’ camp. He sprinted along it, pushing himself as hard as he could. The trail switchbacked up a low rise, and within a few hundred yards he crested the rim of the crater that enclosed the fields and camp. He dropped down the far side, still running, ignoring the switchbacks and descending at breakneck speed straight down the steep slope.
He burst out of the vegetation edging the cultivated land. A field of tall corn offered some cover and he darted into it, the rows running at a ninety-degree angle to his route of travel. He continued on, slowing only slightly, slipping and twisting between the rows of tall plants. But now he could hear his pursuer behind him, the rustle of his progress growing closer, always closer.
Pendergast turned ninety degrees and ran down a row of corn; then, as quickly as he could, he changed tactics, bashing through the rows, zigzagging from one to another. It was fruitless; there was no way to shake Alban and no way to ambush him. Alban was armed; he was not. This was not going to end well.
He saw light ahead and broke out of the far end of the corn. Still running, he crossed a field of bright cotton, the low plants affording no cover whatsoever. He could hear Alban running behind him, his breath coming hard. It had become a straight-ahead race now—and one he would lose.
Even as he realized he wasn’t going to make the opening to the underground camp, he spotted the so-called defectives, streaming back in confusion from the far fields, dressed in ragged clothes, battered straw hats on their heads, tools and implements slung over their shoulders. It was a strange, silent, disorderly mob. Those in front paused, their mouths hanging open, astonished at the sight of the chase. He searched their milling ranks but could not make out Tristram.
At the same time, he heard, bizarrely, the sound of singing—a martial tune, no less. Looking to his right, he saw, streaming toward them from the direction of the docks, dozens of soldiers—the twins. There were around a hundred of them, the same number as the defectives: men and women, girls and boys, aged from perhaps fourteen to around forty, dressed in simple gray uniforms, sporting Iron Crosses—apparently the symbol of their new master race—led by several officers in crisp Nazi regalia. They were heavily armed, and as they approached they easily fell into formation, their voices bursting into song:
Es zittern die morschen Knochen,
Der Welt vor dem großen Krieg,
This was it, Pendergast realized. He could not outrun his son. He stopped, turned, and faced him.
A hundred yards back, Alban slowed to a trot, his face breaking into a smile as he approached. He unslung his rifle and fell back into a walk.
The soldiers approached.
Wir haben den Schrecken gebrochen,
Für uns war’s ein großer Sieg.
But Alban didn’t shoot him down. As he drew close, Pendergast saw, from the triumph in his eyes, that he wanted to draw it out, savor the moment of victory—not end it prematurely with a squalid shot. Indeed, now there was an audience. Now there was high drama, and a chance for Alban to prove himself: vindication in front of all.
It sickened Pendergast how well he understood his son.
Wir werden weiter marschieren
Wenn alles in Scherben fällt,
Supremely confident, Alban approached Pendergast, searched him, removing Pendergast’s last weapon, a small knife. He held it up, tucked it in his own belt: a souvenir.
Now the marching soldiers came to a halt before them—young, beaming, rosy-cheeked, glowing with health and athleticism. Standing in rows, they finished their song:
Denn heute da hört uns Deutschland
Und morgen die ganze Welt!
The commander, Scheermann, dressed in a Waffen-SS uniform, strolled along the line of now-silent soldiers, turned and looked at Pendergast, and then at Alban. He walked around them in a slow circle.
“Well done,” he said to Alban in perfect English. “He is the last one. I leave it in your hands.”
“Thank you, mein Oberführer,” Alban responded.
The boy turned to Pendergast with a smile. “Well, this is it, Father.”
Pendergast waited. He looked over at the field hands, the slave twins, standing in a disorganized bunch, staring slack-jawed. They appeared not to have the slightest idea what was going on. The uniforms, the soldiers, the two groups of twins staring at each other across an unfathomable gulf of biology, of genetics…
Glancing from the soldiers to the enslaved field hands, Pendergast saw many of the same faces. Only where the defectives’ faces were discouraged and hollow, the soldiers had the look of those who had found their place in the world and were supremely satisfied with it. This was how it should be. All was in order.
The horror of it closed off Pendergast’s throat; he almost couldn’t bear the knowledge that this was where his wife had come from, that she had been bred here, an early iteration of this vast eugenics experiment, stretching across at least three generations from the concentration camps of World War II to the forests of Brazil. Bred, no doubt, with the ultimate aim of creating a true master race, capable of establishing and maintaining a Fourth Reich, without the imperfections—mercy, compassion, shortsightedness—of their merely human forebears.
The idea was monstrous. Monstrous.
Scheermann, the Oberführer, said quietly: “Alban? We are waiting.”
Alban took a step forward, his smile growing. With a brief glace at the Oberführer, he swung his fist and punched Pendergast in the side of the head with such force that it knocked the FBI agent to the ground.
“Fight,” he said.
Pendergast rose, blood trickling from his mouth. “I’m afraid I can’t give you that satisfaction, Alban,” he said.
Another blow sent Pendergast sprawling again.
“Fight. I will not have my father die like a cowardly dog.”
Again Pendergast rose, his pale eyes on his son. Again the fist swung hard. Yet again Pendergast went down.
A cry went up from among the ragged slaves. And now, out of nowhere, Tristram emerged.
“Stop it!” he shouted. “That’s my father. And your father, too!”
“Precisely,” said Alban. “And I’m glad you’re here to see this, Schwächling.”
He turned and struck Pendergast again. “What a coward our father is. How disappointing!”
Tristram rushed at Alban, but with the utmost clumsiness; Alban deftly stepped aside while sticking out his foot—a schoolboy trick—and sent Tristram sprawling.
A manly laugh went up among the soldiers.
Pendergast got up from the dirt and stood silently, awaiting the next blow.
81
THE LAUGHTER DIED AWAY. ALBAN LOOKED DOWN AT HIS brother, lying in the dirt. Then he turned slowly back to Pendergast. Reaching down, he removed his sidearm, a Walther P38 that he had lovingly restored by hand. He felt the cool, heavy weapon in his hands. It had been given to him by Fischer when he turned ten, and he had replaced the original grips with elephant ivory he had carved himself.
His twin, Forty-Seven, sat up in the dirt, staring at the pistol.
Alban said, offhandedly: “Don’t worry, brother, I’ve no intention of damaging my own personal blood and organ farm.” He hefted the gun.
“No—this one’s for Father.”
Der Schwächling rose to his feet.
“Go back to your own kind,” Alban said. Meanwhile, the Nazi officers waited, expectantly. As did the brigade of superior twins. Waiting to see what he would do, how he—the one chosen for the beta test—would end this. This was the moment. His moment.
He would not make a mistake. Alban ejected the magazine to make sure it was full, then slid it back into place. With slow deliberation, holding his arm straight, he racked a round into the chamber.
His twin, however, did not move. He spoke in German, his voice loud and clear: “Is this good?”
Alban laughed harshly and, in return, quoted Nietzsche: “What is good? All that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself.”
“That’s sick,” said his twin.
Alban waved as if at a pesky insect, highly conscious of his audience. The only one missing was Fischer. “What are you, Forty-Seven, but a bag of blood and organs—a genetic garbage dump? Your opinions are as meaningless as the wind in the trees.”
This elicited another round of laughter from the soldiers. He couldn’t help but glance at his father, who stared at him with those strange eyes. He seemed unable, now, to read anything in that look. No matter: it was irrelevant.
His twin—who clearly didn’t know when to stop—spoke up again, but this time he spoke not to Alban, but to his own people. “You heard him. He called me and all of you my own kind. How much longer are we going to be treated like storage bags of blood and organs? How much longer are we going to be treated like animals? I am a man.”
And now a low murmur from the crowd.
“Don’t strain yourself, brother,” said Alban. “If you want to see the power of will, watch this.” He pointed the pistol at his father.
“Brother?” the twin cried, again addressing the crowd of defectives. “You hear that word? Can’t you see how wrong this is? Brother against brother? Son murdering his own father?”
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